


La douleur exquise

by nexttothesea



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Multi, Post-Episode: s03e02 The Sign of Three
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-22
Updated: 2021-02-22
Packaged: 2021-03-12 07:14:12
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,044
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29630997
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nexttothesea/pseuds/nexttothesea
Summary: La douleur exquise-Directly translated, the French phrase means "exquisite pain," but that doesn't convey the full force of the sentiment. It specifically refers to that pain you feel for wanting someone you can't have.
Relationships: Mary Morstan/John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Kudos: 8





	La douleur exquise

When Sherlock saw John with Mary, he thought he would manage, he had coped before with all the other girlfriends. This time was different. They got married. Every second of their wedding day was like a slice to his chest and the end of the night left him with a gaping wound, this wasn’t one that John could patch up with his medical kit and sturdy hands. So, Sherlock left. He left the wedding early, striding into the cold and pulling up his collar to protect himself from the harsh reality.

Sherlock hailed a taxi and sat in silence on his way to Baker Street, the atmosphere thick with the tension of his internal battle. He couldn’t return to his old habits; Mycroft would find out far too easily and he was in no condition to deal with his disapproving comments nor his lecture on sentiment. Therefore, he packed a suitcase and ignored the aching throb coming from his chest as he packed with determination.

Hastily, he scrawled down a note for Mrs Hudson notifying her that he was to be away for an indefinite amount of time on a case and left a cheque with the next month’s rent on. He left no message for John or anybody else, he disappeared into the night with nothing but a suitcase, a broken heart and his coat billowing behind him. 

-

Only a week later, he had settled into France well. Sherlock took residence in grand-mère’s old cottage in the countryside, he brought her garden back to life and began tending to bee hives that were left on her property. It became a practice for Sherlock to stay locked away on the cottage grounds and only left for food and eventually to start selling his honey at the local market.

His chest still ached daily, he woke up unconsciously rubbing the skin above his heart and chastised himself whenever he noticed the motion. Routine was suited to his life in France but the familiar itch to solve cases still arose often, but he ignored it by setting up his own lab and analysing the plants from the garden. Nevertheless, the craving for adrenaline and the excitement of new cases settled on the surface and never strayed far from the front of his mind.

Sherlock often went days without checking his mobile but when he did, he was met with knowing messages from Mycroft and interrogations from Lestrade for why he hadn’t responded. It had been a month when he got the first message from John, it simply read _‘How are you? Any new cases?’_. He didn’t touch his phone for over a week after that, although the constant buzzing was a reminder that the metal still lay there on the kitchen side. His heart would thunder at the sound of a notification, the prospect that it could be John. Instead, he schooled his features and hid his sentiment despite being utterly alone in the cottage.

The cottage felt cold and empty with just Sherlock alone living in it, but he supposes the walls of 221b would have felt bigger yet suffocating without John. The dark emptiness of the bedroom upstairs had already haunted him since his return, it became unbearable. A change of scenery was welcome, and nobody put effort into coaxing conversation out of him or irritated him beyond compare, it was fine.

He hadn’t spoken English since the flight and it was nice to be able to leave everything behind with the language, speaking English would just remind him of John and his aching breastbone. They had had a red first aid kit in Baker Street for all the scrapes that John mended after cases but in the cottage, Sherlock kept a green one. Change was now a necessity as well as moving forward.

It was important to him to avoid anything that could remind him of the jumper wearing man that strolled through his mind palace untethered. He tried countless times to padlock the door labelled ‘John’ but each time, more rooms appeared with the same label. Sherlock became exhausted with the effort at trying to reorganise his mind palace and dragged himself into his bed, the floorboards creaking below his feet and in the safety of the room fell into a slumber.

He woke the next morning to a constant buzzing coming from the kitchen- a call. The name blinking on the screen was Mycroft and he begrudgingly picked it up, Mycroft hardly ever called.  


“Quelle?” Sherlock snapped.

“Ah, I see you have decided to fully immerse yourself in France then.”

The younger Holmes sighed, “Qu'est-ce que c'est Mycroft?”

“I am calling because Dr Wats-“

Sherlock ended the call and placed the phone on the side with a trembling hand before a message came through. _‘Don’t be childish, brother. Dr Watson won’t leave me alone, keeps insisting to know where you are and if you keep this solitude up, I will just tell him. - MH’_

Being spoken to in English left Sherlock slumping down to the floor and tears threatening to spill down his cheeks. After gaining a steady breath again, he stood up and made his towards the sitting room where he pulled out a wide and battered book from the bookshelf. Opening it revealed a hollow inside filled with envelopes that had been paired with stamps, sealed, and never sent. They were all addressed to the same person, Dr John Watson.

They had been written and drafted on the lonelier nights since he’d left London, however the bottom letter was more crumpled and faded than the rest of them all. Sherlock had written this one the same day he had written the Best Man speech; this one was a love confession filled with intricate words, stories of what happened while he was away and corners that featured tear stains that left the paper discoloured.

He rested his hand over his chest again before leaving the book on the old oak coffee table and stepping into the shower to wash the red blotches on his face away. The morning sun filtered through the windows as he stepped out the shower and took a breath, hoping that tending to the bees would be enough to distract him from his racing thoughts today.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Translations**  
>  Quelle? = What?  
> Qu'est-ce que c'est Mycroft? = What is it Mycroft?


End file.
